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                         CHAPTER ELEVEN

     "The first of June!  The Kings are off to the seashore to-
morrow, and I'm free.  Three months' vacation--how I shall enjoy
it!" exclaimed Meg, coming home one warm day to find Jo laid
upon the sofa in an unusual state of exhaustion, while Beth took
off her dusty boots, and Amy made lemonade for the refreshment
of the whole party.

     "Aunt March went today, for which, oh, be joyful!" said
Jo.  "I was mortally afraid she'd ask me to go with her.  If she
had,I should have felt as if I ought to do it, but Plumfield is
about as gay as a churchyard, you know, and I'd rather be excused.
We had a flurry getting the old lady off, and I had a fright every
time she spoke to me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that
I was uncommonly helpful and sweet, and feared she'd find it im-
possible to part from me.  I quaked till she was fairly in the
carriage, and had a final fright, for as it drove of, she popped
out her head, saying, `Josyphine, won't you--?' I didn't hear any
more, for I basely turned and fled.  I did actually run, and
whisked round the corner whee I felt safe."

     "Poor old Jo!  She came in looking as if bears were after her,"
said Beth, as she cuddled her sister's feet with a motherly air.

     "Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?" observed Amy,
tasting her mixture critically.

     "She means vampire, not seaweed,but it doesn't matter. It's
too warm to be particular about one's parts of speech," murmured
Jo.

     "What shall you do all your vacation?"  asked Amy, changing
the subject with tact.

     "I shall lie abed late, and do nothing," replied Meg, from
the depths of the rocking chair.  "I've been routed up early all
winter and had to spend my days working for other people, so now
I'm going to rest and revel to my heart's content."

     "No," said Jo, "that dozy way wouldn't suit me.  I've laid
in a heap of books, and I'm going to improve my shining hours
reading on my perch in the old apple tree, when I'm not having
l. . ."

     "Don't say `larks!'" implored Amy, as a return snub for the
samphire' correction.

     "I'll say `nightingales' then, with Laurie.  That's proper
and appropriate, since he's a warbler."

     "Don't let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play
all the time and rest, as the girls mean to," proposed Amy.

     "Well, I will,if Mother doesn't mind.  I want to learn some
new songs, and my children need fitting up for the summer.  They
are dreadfully out of order and really suffering for clothes."

     "May we, Mother?"  asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who
sat sewing in what they called `Marmee's corner'.

     "You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like
it.  I think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no
work is as bad as all work and no play."

     "Oh, dear, no!  It will be delicious, I'm sure," said Meg
complacently.

     "I now propose a toast, as my `friend and pardner, Sairy
Gamp', says.  Fun forever, and no grubbing!" cried Jo, rising,
glass in hand, as the lemonade went round.

     They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by
lounging for the rest of the day.  Next morning, Meg did not
appear till ten o'clock.  Her solitary breakfast did not taste
nice, and the room seemed lonely and untidy, for Jo had not
filled the vases, Beth had not dusted, and Amy's books lay
scattered about.  Nothing was neat and pleasant but `Marmee's
corner', which looked as usual.  And there Meg sat, to `rest and
read', which meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses
she would get with her salary.  Jo spent the morning on the river
with Laurie and the afternoon reading and crying over THE WIDE,
WIDE WORLD, up in the apple tree.  Beth began by rummaging every-
thing out of the big closet where her family resided, but getting
tired before half done, she left her establishment topsy-turvy
and went to her music, rejoicing that she had no dishes to wash.
Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white frock, smoothed her
curls, and sat down to draw under the honeysuckle, hoping someone
would see and inquire who the young artist was.  As no one appeared
but an inquisitive daddy-longlegs, who examined her work with
interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home
dripping.

     At teatime they compared notes, and all agreed that it had
been a delightful, though unusually long day.  Meg, who went shop-
ping in the afternoon and got a `sweet blue muslin, had discovered,
after she had cut the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which
mishap made her slightly cross.  Jo had burned the skin off her
nose boating, and got a raging headache by reading too long.  Beth
was worried by the confusion of her closet and the difficulty of
learning three or four songs at once, and Amy deeply regretted the
damage done her frock, for Katy Brown's party was to be the next
day and now like Flora McFlimsey, she had `nothing to wear'.  But
these were mere trifles, and they assured their mother that the
experiment was working finely.  She smiled, said nothing, and with
Hannah's help did their neglected work, keeping home pleasant and
the domestic machinery running smoothly. It was astonishing what
a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was produced by the
`resting and reveling' process.  The days kept getting longer and
longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were tempers, and
unsettled feeling possessed everyone, and Satan found plenty of
mischief for the idle hands to do.  As the height of luxury, Meg
put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily that
she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes in her attempts to
furbish them up a`la Moffat.  Jo read till her eyes gave out and
she was sick of books, got so fidgety that even good-natured Laurie
had a quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desper-
ately wished she had gone with Aunt March.  Beth got on pretty well,
for she was constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and
no work, and fell back into her old ways now and then.  But something
in the air affected her, and more than once her tranquility was much
disturbed, so much so that on one occasion she actually shook poor
dear Joanna and told her she was a fright'.  Amy fared worst of all,
for her resources were small, and when her sisters left her to amuse
herself, she soon found that accomplished and important little self
a great burden.  She didn't like dolls, fairy tales were childish,
and one couldn't draw all the time.  Tea parties didn't amount to
much neither did picnics unless very well conducted.  "If one could
have a fine house, full of nice girls, or go traveling, the summer
would be delightful, but to stay at home with three selfish sisters
and a grown-up boy was enough to try the patience of a Boaz," com-
plained Miss Malaprop, after several days devoted to pleasure,
fretting, and ennui.

     No one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but
by Friday night each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the
week was nearly done.  Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply,
Mrs. March, who had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off
the trial in an appropriate manner, so she gave Hannah a holiday and
let the girls enjoy the full effect of the play system.

     When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in
the kitchen, no breakfast in the dining room, and no mother any-
where to be seen.

     "Mercy on us!  What has happened?" cried Jo, staring about
her in dismay.

     Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved
but rather bewildered, and a little ashamed.

     "Mother isn't sick, only very tired, and she says she is
going to stay quietly in her room all day and let us do the best
we can.  It's a very queer thing for her to do, she doesn't act
a bit like herself.  But she says it has been a hard week for
her, so we mustn't grumble but take care of ourselves."

     "That's easy enough, and I like the idea, I'm aching for
something to do, that is, some new amusement, you know," added
Jo quickly.

     In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little
work, and they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth
of Hannah's saying, "Housekeeping ain't no joke."  There was plenty
of food in the larder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and
Jo got breakfast, wondering as they did why servants ever talked
about hard work.

     "I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not
to think of her, for she'd take care of herself," said Meg, who
presided and felt quite matronly behind the teapot.

     So a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up
with the cook's compliments.  The boiled tea was very bitter, the
omelet scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but
Mrs. March received her repast with thanks and laughed heartily
over it after Jo was gone.

     "Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I'm afraid,
but they won't suffer, and it will do them good," she said, pro-
ducing the more palatable viands with which she had provided
herself, and disposing of the bad breakfast, so that their feel-
ings might not be hurt, a motherly  little deception for which
they were grateful.

     Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of
the head cook at her failures.  "Never mind, I'll get the dinner
and be servant, you be mistress, keep your hands nice, see
company, and give orders," said Jo, who knew still less than Meg,
about culinary affairs.

     This obliging offer was gladly accepted, and Margaret retired
to the parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the
litter under the sofa and shutting the blinds to save the trouble
of dusting.  Jo, with perfect faith in her own powers and a
friendly desire to make up the quarrel, immediately put a note in
the office, inviting Laurie to dinner.

     "You'd better see what you have got before you think of having
company," said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.

     "Oh, there's corned beef and plenty of poatoes, and I shall
get some asparagus and a lobster, `for a relish', as Hannah says.
We'll have lettuce and make a salad.  I don't know how, but the
book tells.  I'll have blancmange and strawberries for dessert,
and coffee too, if you want to be elegant."

     "Don't try too many messes, Jo, for you can't make anything
but gingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat.  I wash my hands
of the dinner party, and since you have asked Laurie on your own
responsibility, you may just take care of him."

     "I don't want you to do anything but be civil to him and help
to the pudding.  You'll give me your advice if I get in a muddle,
won't you?" asked Jo, rather hurt.

     "Yes, but I don't know much, except about bread and a few
trifles.  You had better ask Mother's leave before you order any-
thing," returned Meg prudently.

     "Of course I shall.  I'm not a fool."  And Jo went off in a
huff at the doubts expressed of her powers.

     "Get what you like, and don't disturb me.  I'm going out to
dinner and can't worry about things at home," said Mrs. March, when
Jo spoke to her.  "I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I'm going to
take a vacation today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse
myself."

     The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably
and reading early in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural
phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a vol-
canic eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.

     "Everything is out of sorts, somehow," she said to herself,
going downstairs.  "There's Beth crying, that's a sure sign that
something is wrong in this family.  If Amy is bothering, I'll
shake her."

     Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the
parlor to find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in
the cage with his little claws pathetically extended, as if implor-
ing the food for want of which he had died.

     "It's all my fault, I forgot him, there isn't a seed or a
drop left.  Oh, Pip!  Oh, Pip!  How could I be so cruel to you?"
cried Beth, taking the poor thing in her hands and trying to
restore him.

     Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and
finding him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino
box for a coffin.

     "Put him in the oven, and maybe his will get warm and revive,"
said Amy hopefully.

     "He's been starved, and he shan't be baked now he's dead. I'll
make him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and I'll
never have another bird, never, my Pip!  For I am too bad to own
one," murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in
her hands.

     "The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go.  Now,
don't cry, Bethy.  It's a pity, but nothing goes right this week,
and Pip has had the worst of the experiment.  Make the shroud, and
lay him in my box, and after the dinner party, we'll have a nice
little funeral," said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken
a good deal.

     Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen,
which was in a most discouraging state of confusion.  Putting on a
big apron, she fell to work and got the dishes piled up ready for
washing, when she discovered that the fire was out.

     "Here's a sweet prospect!"  muttered Jo, slamming the stove
door open, and poking vigorously among the cinders.

     Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market
while the water heated.  The walk revived her spirits, and flattering
herself that she had made good bargins, she trudged home again, after
buying a very young lobster, some very old asparagus, and two boxes
of acid strawberries.  By the time she got cleared up, the dinner
arrived and the stove was red-hot.  Hannah had left a pan of bread
to rise, Meg had worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a
second rising, and forgotten it.  Meg was entertaining Sallie
Gardiner in the parlor, when the door flew open and a floury,crocky,
flushed, and disheveled figure appeared, demanding tartly . . .

     "I say, isn't bread `riz' enough when it runs over the pans?"

     Sallie began to laugh, but Meg nodded and lifted her eyebrows
as high as they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish and
put the sour bread into the oven without further delay.  Mrs. March
went out, after peeping here and there to see how matters went, also
saying a word of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding sheet,
while the dear departed lay in state in the domino box.  A strange
sense of helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet van-
ished round the corner, and despair seized them when a few minutes
later Miss Crocker appeared, and said she'd come to dinner.  Now
this lady was a thin, yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and
inquisitive eyes, who saw everything and gossiped about all she saw.
They disliked her, but had been taught to be kind to her, simply
because she was old and poor and had few friends.  So Meg gave her
the easy chair and tried to entertain her, while she asked questions,
critsized everything, and told stories of the people whom she knew.

     Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions
which Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a
standing joke.  Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone,
and discovered that something more than energy and good will is necess-
ary to make a cook.  She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was
grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.
The bread burned black, for the salad dressing so aggravated her that
she could not make it fit to ear.  The lobster was a scarlet mystery to
her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager
proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves. The potatoes had
to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done
at the last. The blancmange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as
ripe as they looked, having been skilfully `deaconed'.

     "Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are
hungry, only it's mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for
nothing," thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than
usual, and stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast
spread before Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss
Crocker, whose tattling tongue would report them far and wide.

     Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing
after another was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked
distressed, Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and
laughed with all his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive
scene.  Jo's one strong point was the fruit,for she had sugared it
well, and had a pitcher of rich cream to eat with it.  Her hot cheeks
cooled a trifle, and she drew a long breath as the pretty glass
plates went round, and everyone looked graciously at the little rosy
islands floating in a sea of cream.  Miss Crocker tasted first, made
a wry face, and drank some water hastily.  Jo, who refused, thinking
there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking
over, glanced at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there
was a slight pucker about his mouth and he kept his eye fixed on his
plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful,
choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table precipitately.

     "Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo, trembling.

     "Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg
with a tragic gesture.

     Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that
she had given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of
the two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the
milk in the refrigerator.  She turned scarlet and was on the verge
of crying, when she met Laurie's eyes, which would look merry in
spite of his heroic efforts.  The comical side of the affair suddenly
struck her, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.  So
did everyone else, even `Croaker' as the girls called the old lady,
and the unfortunate dinner ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives
and fun.

     "I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will
sober ourselves with a funeral," said Jo, as they rose, and Miss
Crocker made ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at
another friend's dinner table.

     They did sober themselves for Beth's sake.  Laurie dug a grave
under the ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears
by his tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath
of violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph,
composed by Jo while she struggled with the dinner.

                     Here lies Pip March,
                     Who died the 7th of June;
                     Loved and lamented sore,
                     And not forgotten soon.

     At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room,
overcome with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose,
for the beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged
by beating up the pillows and putting things in order.  Meg helped
Jo clear away the remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon
and left them so tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and
toast for supper.

     Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the
sour cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper.  Mrs.
March came home to find the three older girls hard at work in the
middle of the afternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea
of the success of one part of the experiment.

     Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and
there was a scramble to get ready to see them.  Then tea must be got,
errands done, and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until
the last minute.  As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they
gathered on the porch where the June roses were budding beautifully,
and each groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.

     "What a dreadful day this has been!" began Jo, usually the first
to speak.

     "It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable," said
Meg.

     "Not a bit like home," added Amy.

     "It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth,
glancing with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.

     "Here's Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow,
if you want it."

     As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them,
looking as if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.

     "Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want
another week of it?" she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the
rest turned toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn
toward the sun.

     "I don't!" cried Jo decidedly.

     "Nor I," echoed the others.

     "You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and
live a little for others, do you?"

     "Lounging and larking doesn't pay," observed Jo, shaking her
head.  "I'm tired of it and mean to go to work at something right
off."

     "Suppose you learn plain cooking.  That's a useful accomplish-
ment, which no woman should be without," said Mrs. March, laughing
inaudibly at the recollection of Jo's dinner party,, for she had
met Miss Crocker and heard her account of it.

     "Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how
we'd get on?" cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day.

     "Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on
each doing her share faithfully.  While Hannah and I did your work,
you got on pretty well, though I don't think you were very happy
or amiable.  So I thought, as a little lesson, I would show you
what happens when everyone thinks only of herself.  Don't you feel
that it is pleasanter to help one another, to have daily duties
which make leisure sweet when it comes, and to bear and forbear,
that home may be comfortable and lovely to us all?"

     "We do, Mother we do!" cried the girls.

     "Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again,
for though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and
lighten as we learn to carry them.  Work is wholesome, and there
is plenty for everyone.  It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is
good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and
independence better than money or fashion."

     "We'll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don't,"
said Jo.  "I'll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the
dinner party I have shall be a success."

     "I'll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting
you do it, Marmee.  I can and I will, though I'm not fond of sewing.
That will be better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty
nice enough as they are." said Meg.

     "I'll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with
my music and dolls.  I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying,
not playing," was Beth's resolution, while Amy followed their example
by heroically declaring, "I shall learn to make buttonholes, and
attend to my parts of speech."

     "Very good!  Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and
fancy that we shall not have to repeat it, only don't go to the other
extreme and delve like slaves.  Have regular hours for work and play,
make each day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand
the worth of time by employing it well.  Then youth will be delightful,
old age will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in
spite of poverty."

     "We'll remember, Mother!"   And they did.

                         END OF CHAPTER ELEVEN